FAMILIAL DANCE

Emotions were intense –

and asking for expression –

in the week I began this pot.

As I picked up my pencil,

sorrow still swirled

in the place between my breasts.

No wonder at all

that I fell back on dance…

appealed to the passion of my youthful years

to counteract the heavy ache

of body and mind.

My soul complied…

The child leapt

from the passionate and driven man

that was her father…

leapt into practical, dependable connection

with her mother.

The mother’s love was based on faith.

Her spiritual guidance would be lasting.

Her dancer daughter –

born of opposites –

would not forget the familial dance.

The circular and grounding source

must be repeatedly returned to:

for nourishment…

for rest…

for stabilizing.

And equally,

repulsion and rebounding.

I know this now as I renew the bond

with the women of our family…

renewing also the creative drive.

Even as the body ages and subsides,

the spiritual fire lives on.

So does the dance…

PRAYING WOMAN

This praying woman

appeared on  a pot

not long before losing Star.

The little dog was fading

and other things were contributing also

to a pervading sadness.

I sat in the annex with the other women

and willed my hand to draw something other

than a female figure

weighted with what I was feeling.

Yet I found that I was rubbing out more

than I was drawing.

Surrender gave me the truth:

a sorrowing woman appealing for mercy.

And mercy came in the form of angels:

child-shaped…

plump and earthy with determined love.

Generous and wise

as children can be,

they danced in the woman’s night sky…

and with them came stars.

Sweet natures,

whether in children or angels…

or dear little dogs  –

always and innocently –

bring comfort.

And STAR-LIGHT…

STAR

Little dog, Star

has moved on.

She has left us behind:

her earthly companions…

to grieve, to remember, to grieve

until we grieve no more…

but celebrate her well-lived life.

She came as a puppy

almost fourteen years ago,

and embraced her new world

with enormous enthusiasm.

She looked up to Music

 as older brother

and constant companion:

purebred…and handsome as all get out.

Star was a Cocker and Beagle mix;

a little comical and downright cute.

She loved to ride in the car,

deferring to Music

when it came to who rode where.

She lounged in the back like a happy queen,

eager for whatever Mama had in mind,

though Mama knew she loved East Beach the best.

She lapped up fresh salt air

with obvious pleasure,

and gave herself completely

to a windy romp along the hard-packed shoreline.

In this she came to lead the way,

and Music scrambled to keep up.

Star’s wonderful tail

was a flag we simply had to follow.

Her love was irresistible…

a source of joy.

Dear little dog…

For so many years she gave her love

and tolerated my human foibles…

my comings and goings

physically and emotionally.

Mostly she kept her sorrows to herself,

thumping her tail delightedly

each time I spoke her name.

She was always good for a snuggle;

Comfort should have been her middle name.

Even in her later life

when physical ailments came…

one after another:

Torn tendon, Cushing’s Disease, Thyroid problems,

failing Kidneys.

Dr. Duke and Dr. Randall did their best,

 and Star was grateful.

Yet finally…

the inability to relieve the pressure in her bladder,

and cancer discovered by dear Stacey Randall…

Star’s friend Ellen crying  with me

as I said goodbye…

She never meant to pull on my arm so hard.

It was her eagerness that pulled;

she couldn’t wait  to get where she was going.

Her magnificent nose picked up the smell

of fox, raccoon, armadillo, strange cat…

or dog friends with their humans.

Orvis!

Her appetite was whetted by berry season:

Dewberries, Blackberries, Mulberries…

especially Mulberries.

Star grazed beneath the Mulberry tree

for berries the Cedar Waxwing dropped…

especially for her.

Oh Star!

I can’t help wondering where you are…

 

GOODBYE MAY

Poor May…

I may have too many expectations of her.

May: the transitional month

between spring and summer.

I want her to last forever;

birth month for me

and for many plants and creatures

of the natural world.

May: Month of promise

when wonderful things may happen.

Pre-hurricane season…

May: Pretty name, pretty month…

But now it is June.

In May, shortly after completing the pot encircled by dancers, I held this mug in my hand and waited without expectation for an urge to begin. When the line appeared I followed, surprisingly free of judgment…expressing amusement only at the generous bottom of the woman, her leg thrust through  the opening beneath the handle . Bold woman, believing in what she would find on the other side. And she did find… We found the balancing energy we sought, and the story unfolded. Love among the honeysuckle vines, or perhaps a larger reality: anima/animus realized in one complicated being. I saw both and all as I incised the lines and applied the slip: the layer of liquid clay that would whiten and prepare the surface for color.

I was pleased

as the slow, sweet application of color

intensified union.

The hues were bright and clean.

The relaxed and tender face of the woman’s lover

belied the difficult work of finishing…

redefining lines that had faded

with constant handling.

Yet now came the dangerous moment:

As readiness for firing approached,

so did my expectations increase.

What had been wrought upon the mug

would surely only heighten and increase.

This piece that had emerged

from somewhere deep within my self

would emerge again as worthy and desirable

for placement in the Shearwater Pottery showroom.

Oh dear…

I knew immediately what caused the changes that dismayed my hopeful heart. The slip applied to prepare the clay to receive the color had been unevenly applied. It was my first time using the slip and I had rushed; inexperience combined with over eagerness for color was the culprit. Even so, I photographed her less than satisfying completion, doing my best to appreciate her as she is. I even placed her in the showroom…my little blooper mug. Will she be seen and known, regardless of her flaws? Will someone take her home and wonder at her elegant rawness,  drink from her thoughtfully…rubbing a thumb over brail-like etchings that may tell her story? Or will she sit on the shelf for weeks, months, years as other obviously beautiful objects are selected. No matter… I have released her, come what may…

Update: I placed her on Friday, come what may, and what came on Saturday was a person who saw her, knew her, and took her home…just as she is.